Part 2 of my Interview with Sunil Sharma of "Creative Saplings" (India)
The following is the second installment of my interview with Sunil Sharma, an Indian scholar and writer, who contributes to Creative Saplings. The interview was posted at the Creative Saplings Forum, but I reproduce it here in full:
Does poetry still appeal to a culturally diversified mass audience?
No. There is no mass audience for poetry anymore. The mass audience does not buy poetry books, or come to poetry events in record numbers. This partially explains why publishers are reluctant to publish poetry, and why the poetry section in book stores is dwindling. More and more, poets are becoming their own audience, so fellow poets are the greatest market for poetry.
Is it possible to create a symmetry, consonance and harmony in a language headed for elliptical, fast SMS mode, inverting traditional categories of grammar?
As an English teacher, I say it is possible to do so, because part of my job is to make sure that there is harmony and consonance in the language. Symmetry even. It is as if the more diversion (in the form of text messaging conventions) that comes, the greater the need o teach students how to write. There is definitely some deterioration in grammar among big numbers of students, which makes teaching grammar more interesting. The students, or people who have to learn the conventions of the language, don’t necessarily resist the knowledge; it is as if they realize that even though they may break the rules with relish and indulgence (like misusing the apostrophe, or using smiley faces in place of a full stop or period), they still have to learn proper grammar and writing style (in the Strunk and White sense). So as an English teacher, I am needed today more than ever before (of course, I have to believe this with a passion).
What does poetry mean to you?
Many things; it is a companion; my teacher of life ; it is my voice. I like how it operates as the language of life (to use Bill Moyers' terminology), how it is closely linked to what matters to us—-our deepest feelings. I believe that if I cannot get a story on paper, I have to express it though poetry, to capture the heart of the matter.
Can it radicalize blunted modes of perception controlled by a culture industry?
Yes, as long as humans have feelings, and have those deepest moments they retreat to at the end of the day after all the static has settled down. It is as if everyone has a poetic moment, whether it is in the form of grief, or that flash of happiness, or minutes revelation about life. We breathe poetry, it is the language we speak. Culture industry? Surely, this is just a temporary distraction, even if it may happen on a large scale.
Can a non-native poet write in English and become natural and effective?
Yes. We have great examples of non-native speakers who have won Nobel Awards through their poetry and prose (written in English). Wole Soyinka, a fine poet, comes to mind. Dambudzo Marechera of Zimbabwe was effective. Chinua Achebe, although known for his prose, has written effective poetry too. And we have many other examples: Charles Mungoshi of Zimbabwe, Jack Mapanje of Malawi, Okot p’Bitek, and many others. Sometimes writing as a non-native brings some originality to the English language. The language has grown by borrowing from other languages. So each non-native poet could be effective through a distinctive voice and linguistic style.
Why the elite prefer the West as a work location and talk of their nostalgia about their homelands that are voluntarily relinquished for personal gains?
The West is a good place to operate from, in order to reach a wider audience. But a large percentage of those writers don’t prefer the West; most are in forced exile, escaping repressive governments and living in new countries where they don’t feel they can be as effective as when they were back home; so of course nostalgia sets in. The West tends to be well-equipped to facilitate dialogue on diverse topics. Take the US graduate school or research institution which benefits from the expatriate scholar, writer, or elite. In 2001, I met Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak in New York City and I asked a question similar to this. I had felt that post-colonial scholars, whom Spivak was calling the Native Informants, had a pattern of talking about the subaltern that they didn’t interact with on a regular basis. And these scholars were writing in a language the subaltern would never understand, and it seemed as if they were making careers out of the fate of people continents away. But I realized that there was nothing wrong with that. Sometimes the success of some discourse requires that the writer be in a location other than the original home. Chinua Achebe, Ngugi waThiongo, Wole Soyinka, Taslima Nasrin, and others have been more effective operating from the West. Regarding personal gains? Everyone is always seeking those, whether they are in the home country or in exile.
How do you evaluate African-English writing?
It continues to reap the benefits of colonial influence. This only makes sense in that although all African countries are no longer under direct European colonial influence, they kept the language for official business and as the primary language of instruction in schools. In that regard, it remains one of the most important languages used by writers to reach a wider audience in Africa and beyond. I believe that the writing is diverse and ranges from one that is very close to the native British English to some that has been bent for the purposes of carrying the experiences of the writer’s people. Each writer’s style adds to the English language, but I think some voices are shut off because of their perceived poor command of the language. Sometimes it seems that publishers outside of Africa are more willing to publish “African-sounding” English than those in Africa, who insist, in their guidelines, on British English. And those writers who have mastered the British English have done a great job of it, although it is hard to tell if they always effectively represent the experiences of their people. It is hard, anyone, to trust that any language is able to represent human experience effectively. Every act of writing is a form of translation, and is always an approximation, an always-almost affair, where the words the writer uses attempt to express the feeling.
The term African writing refers to writing by people who have disproportionate skills in English. African writing is done by writers ranging from a goat-header in Mazvihwa (my village) to an American-turned-African writer in Botswana (or in Zimbabwe). So my works will sit on the shelves with those of J.M. Coetzee, Nadine Gordimer, Andre Brink, Wilbur Smith and Doris Lessing, who are all considered African literature, although some of these writers are not even considered African here in the West. With this in mind then, I evaluate African-English writing as diverse, and it is forever growing.
When do you plan to write about ghosts and other beliefs in your community?
Interesting question. I am always writing about these. I am inspired by how popular culture in the West seems enthralled by ghost and vampire stories, and the writers who produce those kinds of stories here tend to succeed overnight. One can be reminded of the Harry Potter series, the Twilight series, or primetime television shows like Ghost Whisperer or Medium. Of course, much of this is not what’s considered literature, but even serious literature that deals with ghosts and other paranormal phenomenon has a large following here, and they have a cute term for it: magical realism. When I finally write about the ghosts of my land, I will be following in the footsteps of William Faulkner, who wrote about the ghosts of his Mississippi, Toni Morrison, who invokes the ghosts of slavery, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, Ben Okri, and many others.
All I can say at this time is that that America taught me to appreciate the ghosts of my land.
Is it not a good strategy of connecting with your distant community through a literary device that exploits collective memory of folk culture?
In America, I quickly realized that my community was not going to be as distant as I had suspected. The culture was already exploited here. I live very close to the San Francisco Bay Area, home of diverse cultural groups, most of them American, which specialize in certain African cultures. The music that I used to think was exclusive to Zimbabwe, the mbira, is played here by Americans who were trained in Zimbabwe when they visited as cultural tourists. And I remember them, because back home I used to see them. The folk tale has been recorded and reproduced already under copyright here, so has the music, especially the so-called African drum. The first shock I had was when during my first week in California I attended the Whole Earth Festival at the University of California-Davis. Not only did the sight of Americans playing African drums shock me, I was entranced by the skillful dancers, some of whom acted possessed on the stage. So here I was, having been taught somehow to look down upon some African traditions in preference for aspects of American culture: it was like a slap in the face, a rude re-awakening.
The collective folk culture has already been exploited. Since it is a rich resource, it has not yet been exhausted, so I am certain I can get my piece of the cake as well. I don’t think about those things though, when I write. I just write, and if I end up exploiting folklore, so be it, it is part of my experience as a writer.
Is English a good tool for harvesting non-English culture, primarily for an English-speaking target group? Is there not an inherent danger or erotizing a non-western culture?
It is not a good tool, but it is the best tool available. Humans have always sought the best tools to make their lives easier. The advantages English provides, the opportunities even, outweigh the disadvantages by far. Perhaps it is not harvesting we are talking about, just a sampling. The English-speaking target audience, especially my American one, tends to be a sampling audience. One day they are in a Sushi bar, the next they are sampling Tundoori Chicken, and by Friday they have already eaten chimichangas in a Mexican restaurant. The samples, whether authentic or not, are easily available on American soil, so then the target audience does not even have to travel beyond its shores to sample non-English cultures. But it is never a form of harvesting. No language is able to harvest a human culture; we are always approximating, always exercising what Homi Bhabha has aptly called “metaphoricity”. And by the way, I like his landmark text The Location of Culture, especially the wayit raises the issue of the impossibility of full cultural mastery, but asserting the possibility of a hybridity akin to the sampling that I am talking about. Even I sample aspects of my own culture, and as a writer, I choose what to distort. Again, I think distortion is what a language like English allows us to do.
As for eroticism, that could be a positive thing as long as we are not too obscene about it.
How do you view Achebe and Ngugi?
They will remain the trend setters of our African literature in English; however, we need to view the in the context of other writers like Sembene Ousemane who were writing at the same time in French, Portuguese, or even in indigenous languages, like Solomon Mutswairo of Zimbabwe. These writers did their job of opposing Joseph Conrad, Joyce Cary, H. Rider Haggard, and other colonial writers who were misrepresenting Africa. They set a good foundation, and now I see African literature expanding to discover new voices who experiment with new ways of writing. In other words, there are now diverse camps in the African literary tradition, some tapping into the oral tradition, and other coming out avant-garde.
Ngugi’s theory on language use continues to be attractive, but not always practical. In a recent interview with African Writing Online,my friend Petina Gappah stated that she was not going to have her new book, Elegy for Easterly, translated into Shona because that would be a waste of resources. Zimbabweans can read in English. Recasting the works in Shona would be a kind of translation-for-translation’s sake. Conversely, Ignatius Mabasa, another friend of mine, laments the near-death of indigenous languages in Zimbabwe because of the emphasis on English. His novels and most of his poems are written in Shona. He even recently read Shona poetry in San Francisco (and in a Ngugian fashion, the reading were accompanied by English translations). It matters that these writers are my friends, since their views may have a bearing on my views on the politics of language in African literature. I happen to be the English teacher among them; and I know what helps me keep my job.
Does poetry still appeal to a culturally diversified mass audience?
No. There is no mass audience for poetry anymore. The mass audience does not buy poetry books, or come to poetry events in record numbers. This partially explains why publishers are reluctant to publish poetry, and why the poetry section in book stores is dwindling. More and more, poets are becoming their own audience, so fellow poets are the greatest market for poetry.
Is it possible to create a symmetry, consonance and harmony in a language headed for elliptical, fast SMS mode, inverting traditional categories of grammar?
As an English teacher, I say it is possible to do so, because part of my job is to make sure that there is harmony and consonance in the language. Symmetry even. It is as if the more diversion (in the form of text messaging conventions) that comes, the greater the need o teach students how to write. There is definitely some deterioration in grammar among big numbers of students, which makes teaching grammar more interesting. The students, or people who have to learn the conventions of the language, don’t necessarily resist the knowledge; it is as if they realize that even though they may break the rules with relish and indulgence (like misusing the apostrophe, or using smiley faces in place of a full stop or period), they still have to learn proper grammar and writing style (in the Strunk and White sense). So as an English teacher, I am needed today more than ever before (of course, I have to believe this with a passion).
What does poetry mean to you?
Many things; it is a companion; my teacher of life ; it is my voice. I like how it operates as the language of life (to use Bill Moyers' terminology), how it is closely linked to what matters to us—-our deepest feelings. I believe that if I cannot get a story on paper, I have to express it though poetry, to capture the heart of the matter.
Can it radicalize blunted modes of perception controlled by a culture industry?
Yes, as long as humans have feelings, and have those deepest moments they retreat to at the end of the day after all the static has settled down. It is as if everyone has a poetic moment, whether it is in the form of grief, or that flash of happiness, or minutes revelation about life. We breathe poetry, it is the language we speak. Culture industry? Surely, this is just a temporary distraction, even if it may happen on a large scale.
Can a non-native poet write in English and become natural and effective?
Yes. We have great examples of non-native speakers who have won Nobel Awards through their poetry and prose (written in English). Wole Soyinka, a fine poet, comes to mind. Dambudzo Marechera of Zimbabwe was effective. Chinua Achebe, although known for his prose, has written effective poetry too. And we have many other examples: Charles Mungoshi of Zimbabwe, Jack Mapanje of Malawi, Okot p’Bitek, and many others. Sometimes writing as a non-native brings some originality to the English language. The language has grown by borrowing from other languages. So each non-native poet could be effective through a distinctive voice and linguistic style.
Why the elite prefer the West as a work location and talk of their nostalgia about their homelands that are voluntarily relinquished for personal gains?
The West is a good place to operate from, in order to reach a wider audience. But a large percentage of those writers don’t prefer the West; most are in forced exile, escaping repressive governments and living in new countries where they don’t feel they can be as effective as when they were back home; so of course nostalgia sets in. The West tends to be well-equipped to facilitate dialogue on diverse topics. Take the US graduate school or research institution which benefits from the expatriate scholar, writer, or elite. In 2001, I met Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak in New York City and I asked a question similar to this. I had felt that post-colonial scholars, whom Spivak was calling the Native Informants, had a pattern of talking about the subaltern that they didn’t interact with on a regular basis. And these scholars were writing in a language the subaltern would never understand, and it seemed as if they were making careers out of the fate of people continents away. But I realized that there was nothing wrong with that. Sometimes the success of some discourse requires that the writer be in a location other than the original home. Chinua Achebe, Ngugi waThiongo, Wole Soyinka, Taslima Nasrin, and others have been more effective operating from the West. Regarding personal gains? Everyone is always seeking those, whether they are in the home country or in exile.
How do you evaluate African-English writing?
It continues to reap the benefits of colonial influence. This only makes sense in that although all African countries are no longer under direct European colonial influence, they kept the language for official business and as the primary language of instruction in schools. In that regard, it remains one of the most important languages used by writers to reach a wider audience in Africa and beyond. I believe that the writing is diverse and ranges from one that is very close to the native British English to some that has been bent for the purposes of carrying the experiences of the writer’s people. Each writer’s style adds to the English language, but I think some voices are shut off because of their perceived poor command of the language. Sometimes it seems that publishers outside of Africa are more willing to publish “African-sounding” English than those in Africa, who insist, in their guidelines, on British English. And those writers who have mastered the British English have done a great job of it, although it is hard to tell if they always effectively represent the experiences of their people. It is hard, anyone, to trust that any language is able to represent human experience effectively. Every act of writing is a form of translation, and is always an approximation, an always-almost affair, where the words the writer uses attempt to express the feeling.
The term African writing refers to writing by people who have disproportionate skills in English. African writing is done by writers ranging from a goat-header in Mazvihwa (my village) to an American-turned-African writer in Botswana (or in Zimbabwe). So my works will sit on the shelves with those of J.M. Coetzee, Nadine Gordimer, Andre Brink, Wilbur Smith and Doris Lessing, who are all considered African literature, although some of these writers are not even considered African here in the West. With this in mind then, I evaluate African-English writing as diverse, and it is forever growing.
When do you plan to write about ghosts and other beliefs in your community?
Interesting question. I am always writing about these. I am inspired by how popular culture in the West seems enthralled by ghost and vampire stories, and the writers who produce those kinds of stories here tend to succeed overnight. One can be reminded of the Harry Potter series, the Twilight series, or primetime television shows like Ghost Whisperer or Medium. Of course, much of this is not what’s considered literature, but even serious literature that deals with ghosts and other paranormal phenomenon has a large following here, and they have a cute term for it: magical realism. When I finally write about the ghosts of my land, I will be following in the footsteps of William Faulkner, who wrote about the ghosts of his Mississippi, Toni Morrison, who invokes the ghosts of slavery, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, Ben Okri, and many others.
All I can say at this time is that that America taught me to appreciate the ghosts of my land.
Is it not a good strategy of connecting with your distant community through a literary device that exploits collective memory of folk culture?
In America, I quickly realized that my community was not going to be as distant as I had suspected. The culture was already exploited here. I live very close to the San Francisco Bay Area, home of diverse cultural groups, most of them American, which specialize in certain African cultures. The music that I used to think was exclusive to Zimbabwe, the mbira, is played here by Americans who were trained in Zimbabwe when they visited as cultural tourists. And I remember them, because back home I used to see them. The folk tale has been recorded and reproduced already under copyright here, so has the music, especially the so-called African drum. The first shock I had was when during my first week in California I attended the Whole Earth Festival at the University of California-Davis. Not only did the sight of Americans playing African drums shock me, I was entranced by the skillful dancers, some of whom acted possessed on the stage. So here I was, having been taught somehow to look down upon some African traditions in preference for aspects of American culture: it was like a slap in the face, a rude re-awakening.
The collective folk culture has already been exploited. Since it is a rich resource, it has not yet been exhausted, so I am certain I can get my piece of the cake as well. I don’t think about those things though, when I write. I just write, and if I end up exploiting folklore, so be it, it is part of my experience as a writer.
Is English a good tool for harvesting non-English culture, primarily for an English-speaking target group? Is there not an inherent danger or erotizing a non-western culture?
It is not a good tool, but it is the best tool available. Humans have always sought the best tools to make their lives easier. The advantages English provides, the opportunities even, outweigh the disadvantages by far. Perhaps it is not harvesting we are talking about, just a sampling. The English-speaking target audience, especially my American one, tends to be a sampling audience. One day they are in a Sushi bar, the next they are sampling Tundoori Chicken, and by Friday they have already eaten chimichangas in a Mexican restaurant. The samples, whether authentic or not, are easily available on American soil, so then the target audience does not even have to travel beyond its shores to sample non-English cultures. But it is never a form of harvesting. No language is able to harvest a human culture; we are always approximating, always exercising what Homi Bhabha has aptly called “metaphoricity”. And by the way, I like his landmark text The Location of Culture, especially the wayit raises the issue of the impossibility of full cultural mastery, but asserting the possibility of a hybridity akin to the sampling that I am talking about. Even I sample aspects of my own culture, and as a writer, I choose what to distort. Again, I think distortion is what a language like English allows us to do.
As for eroticism, that could be a positive thing as long as we are not too obscene about it.
How do you view Achebe and Ngugi?
They will remain the trend setters of our African literature in English; however, we need to view the in the context of other writers like Sembene Ousemane who were writing at the same time in French, Portuguese, or even in indigenous languages, like Solomon Mutswairo of Zimbabwe. These writers did their job of opposing Joseph Conrad, Joyce Cary, H. Rider Haggard, and other colonial writers who were misrepresenting Africa. They set a good foundation, and now I see African literature expanding to discover new voices who experiment with new ways of writing. In other words, there are now diverse camps in the African literary tradition, some tapping into the oral tradition, and other coming out avant-garde.
Ngugi’s theory on language use continues to be attractive, but not always practical. In a recent interview with African Writing Online,my friend Petina Gappah stated that she was not going to have her new book, Elegy for Easterly, translated into Shona because that would be a waste of resources. Zimbabweans can read in English. Recasting the works in Shona would be a kind of translation-for-translation’s sake. Conversely, Ignatius Mabasa, another friend of mine, laments the near-death of indigenous languages in Zimbabwe because of the emphasis on English. His novels and most of his poems are written in Shona. He even recently read Shona poetry in San Francisco (and in a Ngugian fashion, the reading were accompanied by English translations). It matters that these writers are my friends, since their views may have a bearing on my views on the politics of language in African literature. I happen to be the English teacher among them; and I know what helps me keep my job.
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